


Facets

by WaterFowl



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Gen, Lee/Angst, Lee/Dee - Freeform, Postmortem Depression, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-17
Updated: 2010-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterFowl/pseuds/WaterFowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lee Adama had to meet expectations his entire life. The ones concerning him tackling grief, proved, by far, the hardest to face. Set post 'Sometimes A Great Notion', season 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Facets

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A little angsty drabble to break through the writer's block.
> 
> Of the many expectations Lee Adama had to face through his life, the ones concerning how it ought to be becoming of him to handle grief were, by far, the hardest to meet.
> 
> Set post 'Sometimes A Great Notion', season 4. Mentions of episodes through the span of the series.
> 
> Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot-points, inherent to the show, belong to me.

**Facets**

He'd had to meet other people's expectations his entire life. He'd been expected to be so many things: his father's son, a dutiful soldier, Captain Apollo, a royal frak-up of the Twelve Colonies, a shining beacon of hope. You name it. And it wasn't actually _being_ all of the above in arbitrary combination, that really got to him, or compelled him to rebel with a vengeance time and again, but to be _presumed_ something, or someone, despite his will. Leland Joseph Adama didn't relinquish control eagerly, if at all.

Now he was stranded with facing expectations of sorrow, as well. Helo, for one, would tiptoe around him as if he were made of glass. Would hush self-consciously, whenever his late wife's name popped up, even in passing, steeling a glance his way, coiled preemptively, awaiting his imminent breakdown. Helo's discrete compassion would drive him wanting to scream, most of the times. To stomp his feet, slam Helo's empathetic countenance into the nearest bulkhead – hard – and yell right into Helo's ear all the things the good Karl Agathon conveniently chose to overlook, wrenching his heart for his bereaved friend. That the said friend was a husband from Hades, that he cheated on her, before and after the wedding, that he disappointed her, disgraced her, disowned her, abandoned her, abused her in ways that stung a lot deeper than physical, lost her, that he took her benevolence for granted, allowing himself to indulge his many and varied inadequacies at her expense, anticipating her to be there and pick up the pieces, until she couldn't, any longer. He'd go as far as picturing Helo's horrified grimace, upon all of that spelled out, and pretend the smug blatancy could help him feel a morsel better.

A lot vaster majority of those he had to interact with on the daily basis didn't expect him to mourn her at all. His father, for instance, hardly ever expected him to grieve – not over Zack, not over the thousand passengers of the Olympic Carrier, not over billions of people of the annihilated Colonies, not over loss of their humanity and reasons to fight for, not over Kendra Shaw's condemned soul, not over Kara, not over demolished Earth, and definitely not over Dee. He was supposed to tough it up, be a man, or an Adama, or a President, and soldier on. Not that he wasn't good at doing just that, per se, but to have his loss acknowledged without it being measured up against his Old Man's that time around wouldn't have hurt, he dared to suppose. Wouldn't have hurt that much, at least.

The rest of those in the know of the most recent tragedy, probably, just assumed he wouldn't even _care_ to lament her. And that incessantly made him want to snort. The barking, harsh one, devoid of mirth. It made him want to climb Galactica's highest catwalk and shout out to them all how her hair would smell of smoky mist, and rain, and _him_ in the mornings; how it felt to witness the darkness infallibly shrink away from his toes at the sound of her voice; how just watching her move about their quarters, or the CIC – precise, efficient, all-business – would more often than not make him want to sweep her up and kiss her silly; what it meant to be regarded by that particular look of hers, appreciative without being condescending, admiring, without being superficial, asserting he was doing something remarkably right, and was the only one in the entire frakking universe apt to pull it off. Yeah, he had a lot to tell them. He'd laugh so hard, watching their assorted faces, transfixed with bewilderment, shame giving way to hastily scrambled retroactive sympathy. And then, hopefully, the railings of that catwalk would give and he'd just drop down head-first. It was an old ship, after all. Not that it couldn't be expected.

Gaeta would shoot him white-hot daggers whatever scarce amount of time they got to come in touch those days, fiercely vigilant lest his demeanor should indicate any stray hint of sorrow poor Felix deemed him utterly undeserving of. Not that he could completely disagree. Not that it didn't bring him to crave smacking Gaeta down. Or better still, handing Gaeta a gun and pleading for one ultimate favor. For euthanasia. Which he most certainly wouldn't get, for Gaeta had, apparently, deemed him undeserving of mercy too.

Only left on his own, the hatch-door of his quarters having shut the rest of the fleet's opinions effectively out, he'd know what to feel. And how. He'd ponder, amazed, all the things that could have gone differently for the two of them and permit his feverish mind to relax into gratitude. She could've been assigned to a different battlestar and died through the attacks, to begin with. She could've been off duty when his father was shot in the CIC, never witnessing his breakdown, never reaching out with compassion and strength enough to keep him focused. She could've married Billy, at any arbitrary point of his own brooding spin. Sam could've turned out dead on Caprica, or turned down Kara's proposal. There was a time he wouldn't have believed the idea could ever give him Gods honest creeps. She could've given up on him so many times over those years his fingers would go numb in fright whenever he ventured an inventory. Each and every of those infinite happenstances beyond his grasp ending him never knowing what it truly felt like to be the man she loved. The one she was willing to absolve. The one eagerly looking forward to meet her expectations. It would appear, through the end of thirteen worlds Leland Joseph Adama had learnt to count his blessings.


End file.
